


A Very Dangerous Man

by melancholicInspiration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melancholicInspiration/pseuds/melancholicInspiration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I haven't seen any of this pairing before. So I made the thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lit Match

Being in his line of work meant a lot of things. It meant that the government relied on him, if not for him personally, but for the things he could do to help keep the system organized and functioning as well as it was supposed to. It helped that he was smart enough and more than capable of doing any work he needed to tackle, and that he went through intensive schooling to ensure that he was prepared. To not let off simple nuances, keep his breathing and posture as clean and closed as possible. So that anyone who shook to destroy some faction of the current country, couldn't get any necessary and possibly dangerous information from.

And in all his years, the long years of schooling and guarding every facet of his life, he was reasonably sure that no one would go out of their way to find him. Maybe find the books of information he had hidden away and locked up both in his brain and otherwise. Other than his position in where he worked and his country, he knew his personal life was so frightfully dull that it wouldn't be of any interest to anyone who wanted to be his friend or pry into his life.

Surprise to his knowledge as he stepped into his house to find someone hiding out in the house. The telltale smell of cigarette smoke that overcame even the gauche potpourri found in every room. He closed the door behind him, already knowing who it was. Only one person knew how to break into places so cleverly and pretend like he wasn't even there. Well two technically, but Sherlock wouldn't dare even think about the drive over here let alone all the 'work' it would be breaking into his house was enough of a deterrent to ensure Sherlock didn't really bother. Not that he minded terribly.

Mycroft found Jim in one of the foyer's on the main floor, the glass doors spread wide open as if trying to invite him in, get him to spill all his secrets. He stood in the doorway, looking down at Jim sitting on one of the chairs near the fireplace on the wall just behind him. A white cigarette dangled from his lip, the end lit and it only smoked down a quarter of the way. The glass ashtray in his lap was empty and freshly polished. Mycroft always had the ashtrays cleaned, made it a point to ensure they were. So the fact that it was still clean, free from ash and cigarette butts was a testament to how long Jim had been there.

Jim offered him a wide smirk, a smirk that would make the knees shake and blush rises from lesser men and women, but Mycroft stood his ground. "Do sit down, Mikey. Have a cuppa."

Mycroft did move further into the room, but made no move to sit down. He wouldn't humor Moriarty of all people, even if he was in certain danger. Right now, even with Jim Moriarty in his house and smoking up his foyer, he knew there was no real danger here.

"Nice place you got here, must have cost you a pretty penny. Or was it a gift for being such a good lapdog for the Queen all these years?" Jim taunted again, trying to lure him into reacting, trying to see just which string he could pull to have him fall into his lap.

Mycroft gave him a grimace of a smile, the same one he often gave Sherlock when he was testing his patience, standing a far few feet away and close enough to the fireplace that Jim would either have to move or crane his head back an awful way to look at him clearly. "It would seem that you've been demoting yourself to petty breaking and entering it would seem." He taunted back, knowing that Jim would invariably respond to that. There was no way he couldn't. If there was one thing you could count on Jim Moriarty for, it was a spectacular reaction.

True to form, Moriarty put the cigarette down and bounded up out of the chair standing far too close to Mycroft for comfort. Mycroft could dectect hints is his aftershave and cologne, and while not entirely unpleasant, brought back some feelings he thought he had burned and buried years ago. Maybe some of it showed on Mycroft's face because Jim leant in closer an earthy chuckle escaping from his thin lips."Oh boy, classic insult there Mikey. Can't wait to see what else you've got loaded for me."

He continued to chuckle as he sauntered around the foyer, running his hands along the books and the tables as if trying to mark it as belonging to him, instead of them being Mycroft's.

"If you came all this way to pester me, I'm afraid you'll be frightfully underwhelmed." Mycroft retorted, knowing that Jim knew how bothered he was getting by touching his stuff like that. Why he was here was unknown to him, but hardly anyone had any damn clue why Jim did anything. Jim just shot him another sly grin, leaning up against the window and lighting a cigarette. Just being around that was giving Mycroft cravings, but he wouldn't let him have the upper hand in this.

"Poor baby Mikey, always so guarded, always soooooo locked up and tight. Your mind must be like Pentonville. What a frightfully interesting place to be. All those people, all the voices, demanding to be heard." Jim's smirk was almost plastered on as he leaned against the window sill, imagining a few fun scenarios in his head. Most of them involved Mycroft on his nicely polished floor, chest underneath the heel of his boot. The image was definitely a pleasant one.

He moved closer to him again, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, close enough that each time he exhaled the smoke would brush right in Mycroft's face. "Higher security than Pentonville, I presume. Too many secrets, feelings, all locked up in tiny little vaults. All organized and frightfully dull. Just  _begging_ for someone to blow it all up. Poor Mikey. Wonder how long it'll take for that to happen."

"You're here to light the match then. Start the fire." Mycroft was almost bored with how predictable Jim was getting. Always one for destruction, always clapping his hands when something blew up or got bloody. Mycroft was near the opposite, always taking his time organizing and filing and ensuring everything worked as planned. Jim Moriarty was like a kid taking a hammer to intricately painted Easter eggs.

"Oh no. No no no, I'm just along for the riiiiide." Jim replied gleefully, almost bouncing at the thought of seeing Mycroft all undone and in tears.

Mycroft watched him closely, not taking his eyes off him, even when he circled around to grab his folded up coat and place it in the crook of an arm and headed for the door. Always the polite one, Mycroft followed him. This just made the shorter man grin with delight as he turned to face him at the door. 

"Always so obedient  _Mycroft._ What a good lapdog you are." The taunt lingered in the air and in a sudden movement Jim had him pinned to the door and their lips connected. Mycroft mentally scrambled for an explainwtion as to why Jim was doing this, what kind of game he was playing at. 

Before he could respond, he heard the door open and close and Jim had really left. The only traces of him was the smell of cigarettes and the slight dampness on Mycroft's lips.

The first match had already been lit.


	2. Uninvited Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim sent someone to "check up" on Mycroft. Mycroft knows and isn't too thrilled about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I last worked on this. Hope this chapter makes up for the absence.

Even weeks later - it had been close to a month since Moriarty's surprise visit to his house - and Mycroft was still finding himself reeling from what had happened. A gun being pulled on him would be more to his liking than what actually happened. The fact that Jim might've known about his feelings towards men, a detail that Mycroft had gone to extreme lengths to have hidden, bothered him even more. Then again, the man was an infamous criminal perhaps he wasn't above ignoring things like consent.

That last thought was troubling and Mycroft didn't appreciate that it troubled him. Admitting to be bothered by something as inconsequential as caring whether Moriarty heeded consent was tantamount to admiring or even liking the man.

Work carried on as usual, having to do mundane things like look into certain foreign affairs and look after things closer to home. Nothing Mycroft would ever be unprepared for, he could practically do this work in his sleep, but some of it did keep his mind occupied for the time being. Kept his mind off less important things.

Like the way that Jim slammed him against the door, skirting the line between rough and gentle and forced that kiss on him. A kiss that was _so_ very much like what he expected out of Jim, an unspoken threat and a lingering promise. Threats were par for the course with a man like that, and so very obvious when one knew the kind of work that he really did. What got him was the idea of whatever it was that a man like Jim would offer or promise him.

As the sun started to set far beyond the extensive courtyard at the building he worked, Mycroft found him staring off at it for a brief few seconds. It seemed odd enough that one of his coworkers, who had stopped in briefly to drop off some paperwork, cleared his throat and gave him a stern glance.

"Not sleeping well, Mr. Holmes?" The man asked in a quiet but brusque tone, trying to convey that he both didn't really care and was intending to see if something was bothering Mycroft enough for him to be slacking off like that. 

It was just about time for everyone to head home, and both of the men knew this. They also knew that Mycroft was not a man to just idly stare at sunsets or at stars. Maybe that was a sign that something really was getting to him more than usual, or he was just unusually bored at the present moment.

"I'm quite alright, thank you." Mycroft replied trying to make it sound sincere and not in the manner of someone trying to lie and be stubbornly evading the question at hand, taking the proffered paperwork from him and giving a slight wave of his hand, signalling that he could go and continue the rest of his work. The man just nodded and left the room without saying anything else. If anyone were to ask either of them what that conversation was about, it would likely end in a white lie about Mycroft's lack of sleep the night before.

~~~~

Later, when Mycroft finally got back to his house with his suitcase filled only half-way with paperwork, did he notice something was off about the house. There were no extra shoes in the front hall, so he silently assumed that if someone was in there, they didn't intend to stay for long. Walking a few paces into the main hall, he looked into the main foyer - where he could still remember Jim sitting in that yellowed chair by the fireplace - and was a little relieved to find that he wasn't there now.

Some part of him still expected him to show up in random places just to bother him. While Mycroft was more or less used to that treatment from his younger brother, he wasn't very used to the idea of people just showing up in places they had no logical right to be. Apart from the surprise a few weeks ago, it had been years since Mycroft freely allowed someone to come in and out of his house at will. He never invited anyone over, not that his work even allowed for that type of thing.

If he missed having people over to his house, or even spending time with other people outside of work, he never showed it. To show something like that - in Mycroft's mind - was an easily exploitable weakness.

He briefly turned to face the mirror hanging right in the hall and frowned at the sight. Just along the sides of the glass were fingerprints and streaks on the glass. It wasn't a mistake any reputable cleaning lady would do, and it was obviously done on purpose. This only proved that there was someone lurking about in his house, no doubt trying to find any incriminating evidence on him. 

Carefully listening to any unusual footfalls or voices, he headed upstairs to where his study was. If there was any criminals lurking about, and no doubt there would be one knowing who he had the displeasure of meeting the other day, they would go there first. But given the relative silence of the house, and the fact that none of the windows have been forced open or broken, whomever it was had either left or was still looking for something in one of the other rooms.

The light being on over his desk was a good indicator that whoever was in his house stopped by that room and started looking around. All the books, papers, and even his pens were as clearly organized as he left them last night. So either they weren't touched or someone had gone to great lengths to ensure it looked that way. The latter was definitely more plausible given the situation. Even still, he wasn't about to go and chase whomever it was down and browbeat them into telling him what they were doing in his house. There wasn't anything incriminating in the house, and certainly nothing to make him lose his job.

With that thought in mind, he carefully sat down at his desk and began to start getting back to work. Even at home, he found work to be more of a solace than turning on whatever showed on the television. He had little need to waste his life watching it, and the only thing that was of slight importance to him was the news and he just as easily found that out each day when he went to work.

~~~~

It was close to three in the morning when Moran got back to the apartment he shared with his boss, and on again off again lover, James Moriarty. He was quite obviously tired but he managed to get away without anyone noticing and got the information Jim was looking for. The man in question was sitting at his desk, looking at something on the computer screen and leaning back in his chair, obviously not noticing that Sebastian had just walked in.

"Hey." Sebastian called out to him, pulling out a manilla envelope and putting it on the keyboard, a frown on his face that was clearly wiped away when Jim looked up at him and gave him the smile that he had become so used to in the past year.

"You got it?" Jim asked, knowing full well he got what he was asked for, but seemingly wanting to hear him admit it.

"Copies. Managed to take a few pictures of the other things you asked for." Sebastian replied, gesturing at the envelope as if inviting him to open it and see for himself. Jim didn't. Instead he just held onto his wrist and looked up at him for a few silent moments, before his usual thinking face came on.

"Notice anything?" Jim's questions were always as vague as could be, but it usually wasn't as bad since Seb knew him well and knew what he was referring to most of the time.

"Other than your new toy is a workaholic and doesn't seem to have any friends at all, no." It was meant as a light-hearted tease at the toy's expense to which Jim chuckled and nodded. Neither of the Holmes boys were popular, and anyone could tell that as soon as they met either of them.

The two lapsed into a rather comfortable silence, only broken by Sebastian going to the fridge and grabbing a beer, followed by Jim's request to bring him one also. Jim didn't drink much, said he didn't enjoy the taste, but he was known to do so when it pleased him. And it seemed that the idea pleased him currently.

 

"So why this one?" Moran pressed, finally speaking the question that was bothering him for half that day. Sebastian Moran wasn't a man easily overcome by jealousy, but sometimes Jim had a tendency to fixate on people for seemingly no reason at all. And at least three quarters of the people he chose to play with ended up dead.

"Why not this one?" Jim countered, a playful smirk appearing on his face as he turned in his chair to look at where Seb was reclining on the loveseat on the other end of the room. "Powerful, obviously lonely, intelligent, and obvious connections to the dear Sherlock." And it was obvious that while Sherlock probably wouldn't be bothered if something happened to his brother - though that also remained to be seen - Mycroft seemed to care for his brother. Not expected but no doubt more curious than if the two openly hated each other.

Moran seemed to be content with that answer and took a long sip of his beer, but something about this gambit made him a bit wary. There was definitely more to Jim's fixation on Mycroft than meets the eye. Par for the course when dealing with a consulting criminal.


End file.
